Idea in Stone (30 page)

“Okay, go,” said Peter, pushing him away.

“Right. Okay. I’m going,” he said, heading for the door. “I am leaving. I’m going to leave now. When I leave, you’re not going to see me for hours and hours. Any last words you want to say to me?”

“Yes,” said Peter, “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while now.” He sat up in bed. “You’re out of milk.”

Stefan gave an exasperated sigh and left the flat. The whole ride to work, he wondered if people could tell he was in love. He felt himself grinning unconsciously. Did they see his “I’ve had sex” look? He didn’t care, he thought, yet he wanted everyone to know.

He looked at the other people on the bus. Their faces were long, expressionless. He supposed most of them were probably in relationships, but found it impossible to imagine them ever having sexual desires or romping naked.

This thing you have,
he thought,
it’s what you wanted, isn’t it?
It was certainly
something
he’d wanted, he knew that. Every aquarium cleaner, escort, or anonymous clerk he’d pined for was nothing compared to the kinship he felt in Peter.

But it’s not salvation, is it?

That’s what he’d asked his father for. He’d heard Peter’s voice long before writing to his father. He had no doubt he was meant to meet Peter. His father’s plans facilitated their meeting but he didn’t suppose that was the whole plan. In love or no, he still had to go to work, to participate in an organisation whose workings and aims were completely foreign to him and which was indifferent to him. He recalled what he used to say in spite: “Romance is not salvation”. Now that he had a love for himself, he realised it was true, and that struck him as sad. Surely love was more than just a distraction encouraged by songs. He had no doubt it had the potential to change him. And it made him the happiest he’d been since childhood. But he still felt a responsibility to something bigger. Looking at the defeated faces of the other riders, he wondered if they’d shirked some responsibility of their own at some point. If they had love, were they even interested in it anymore?

He committed himself to being an exception to their rule. Peter was a wonder, and he would never forget it. And his work life... The thought of facing the Directors filled him with dread. He couldn’t imagine any way for his meeting with them to go well.

~

A cold draught and the musty smell of old, wet books pervaded the room. Stefan wasn’t sure if it came from the walls or from the Directors themselves.

“Your report,” demanded the tall director in the centre in a slow and careful tone.

“I believe the police have found the phone.”

“Yes. They have.”

“So that’s that, then.”

“The question, Mister Mackechnie, was as much about the keeper of the telephone as it was about its whereabouts.”

Stefan tried to deflect the scrutiny from himself. “When I left on Thursday, Tech looked like they were about to find whoever had the phone. Didn’t they?”

“No, they did not. The thief seemed to have been informed at the last moment. And yes, what is this I hear about you leaving your post without authorisation? I am afraid,” he turned to look at the other directors on either side of him, “we find that unacceptable. Combined with this fraud suspect managing to learn somehow about our investigation and then eluding you—I am afraid the whole situation has become untenable.” He leaned forward. Stefan was sure he heard an audible creaking noise. “I am afraid we’re going to have to send you to the workhouses.” The squat little director to his right leaned in and whispered something. “I am afraid,” corrected the director, “that we must terminate your employment here.”

“Oh,” said Stefan. He wasn’t surprised at the decision, though he was shocked to be fired for the first time in his life. “I guess I’ll go collect my things.”

“You have ten minutes to leave the building. Should you fail to vacate the premises, we will hunt you.”

“Right,” said Stefan. “Well, you all take care.” He started toward the door, but halted, and went to the window. “You know, it’s really stuffy in here. You really should have more light.” He tore open the heavy drapes, letting in a wide column of white sunshine. As he left, he heard the directors shrieking.

~

Stefan frantically scrolled through the orange screens of data, deleting line after line of information about the stolen mobile.

“What’s up?” asked his line manager.

“Oh,” he said, startled, “just tidying up,” he answered, turning off the screen.

“And the cardboard box?”

“Ah, well, it’s not really working out for me here. The Directors and I decided it would be best if I left.”

“Oh.” Over the manager’s shoulder, Stefan saw a squad of people in beige uniforms running toward the Directors’ offices, carrying fire blankets and buckets of sand.

“I guess I should get going. Thanks for all your help.” More beige figures headed in his direction. Stefan dropped his cardboard box. “Bye!” he said, and ran.

~

“What am I going to do?” asked Stefan.

Peter turned around on the bed, shifting the bills and bank statements. “I don’t know, Ste.”

Stefan searched his flat. “There’s got to be something here I can sell. I’ve got to make rent.”

“What about this CD player?”

“It plays okay, but it’s cracked.”

“Hm,” said Peter, and continued looking around the bed. He picked up a small box made of near-black mahogany, covered in tiny etched patterns. “What about this?”

The Voice Box.
“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Why? What is it?”

“It’s something my mother gave me before I left. A Voice Box.”

“What?” Peter turned it around and examined it. “What’s it do?”

“No idea. I think it must be pretty valuable. But I don’t know if I can sell it. See, my mother is a singer. She’s kind of famous. And I used to do voices for cartoons and commercials and stuff, so we kind of had this voice thing between us. She said I should open it when I’ve had a change of heart.”

“You shouldn’t sell it then.”

“I guess it is just an object. And it might get a good price. But selling it—”

“Hey, I know! Pawn it. There’s this shop I used to go to as a kid, if it’s still there. Miserable bastard owned it. We used to take in stuff we’d got a hold of, and sometimes he’d buy it. We could bring your box there and pawn it, then you can get it back when you’ve got the dosh again.”

Stefan took the box from him. It didn’t feel right, but he decided he had no other choice.

~

“It’s from Peru, Mister Kreel,” said Peter to the pawn-shop owner. Kreel pulled up the sleeves of his patched green cardigan, took the box, and held it to the light. His eyes were far apart; he had to show the box to one eye, then the other.

Stefan looked at Peter.
Peru?
he mouthed. Peter winked.

“It’s something very rare called a Voice Box,” continued Peter.

“What’s it do?”

“You can,” he leaned on the counter and waved a hand at the object while he searched his mind for an explanation. One popped into his head as he looked at it. “You can carry a song in this box. When someone needs that song most, the box opens up and makes everything better.”

The shop-keep looked closer at it. Peter turned to Stefan and shrugged.

“How do ah open it?”

“Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it? You have to be the one who’s meant to hear it. Besides, you’re not exactly in trouble, are you?” He leaned back. “It’s a kind of puzzle. I don’t know if you could work it out.”

Kreel grumbled. “How much d’yeh want for it?”

“How much are you willing to offer?”

“How much d’yeh want?”

“Three hundred quid.”

Kreel laughed and handed the box back.

“Two hundred pounds,” said Stefan.

Kreel smacked his lips as if chewing cold porridge. “One-fifty.”

Stefan sighed. That wouldn’t pay his rent. It was something, though. “Okay.”

Kreel went to a small safe behind him and pulled open its two-inch door. From a heavy canvas bag, he took a roll of money and peeled off some bills. He closed the safe and handed Stefan the money. With great difficulty, he penned a number onto each half of a perforated ticket, and tore one half off for Stefan.

“Thank you,” said Peter, putting an arm around Stefan and leading him out of the shop. Stefan looked at the ticket in his hand, and the shaky numbers on it like characters of a foreign script.

“Don’t worry,” said Peter, “we’ll get it back in no time.”

But Stefan was worried. He looked back into the shop, watching Kreel shake the box then put it to his ear.

~

Autumn had arrived. Stefan walked through the town, as he had done each day for the past week to pass the time. Today, he finally put his finger on what the change was. It came on so slowly it was barely perceptible. But now he saw it: the colour was gone. Every surface had been leached of its hue, from the sky to the rough brick of the buildings to the earth. The city was an antique stereoscope picture and he was inside it.

He descended the steps of Dig Nation, where he was to meet Peter at the end of his lunchtime shift. “Hey there,” said Fiona as he entered.

“Hiya.”

“How you doing?” she asked. From the sympathy in her voice he guessed that Peter told her everything. He wondered how far that sibling communication went, what other sorts of things he told her about.

“I’m doing okay. Just taking it day by day.” He smiled, but it was an effort. The first of the month was coming, and he had little money left. It bothered him to consider how much he had in the bank just a season ago. Poverty was new to him and it was not comfortable. Worry drained the enjoyment from circumstances he knew he should be enjoying.

“Is Peter here?”

“Yeah,” said Fiona, “I’ll tell him you’ve come for him.”

A moment later, Peter appeared from the kitchen, untying his apron and lifting it over his head. He raised a section of the bar and walked through to give Stefan a hug. He lifted Stefan’s chin with his thumb. “That bad, eh?” Stefan shrugged. “Okay, come with me, miseryguts.”

He draped his apron over the bar. “Hand me my jacket, will you, Fi? I’ll be back in time for the supper crowd. If anyone comes in, we’ve still got some jacket potatoes and the cold rolls.”

“Alright,” she said, “but if you’re not back in time I’ll kill you. I am not going into that kitchen.”

“Okay,” he agreed. The chill of the afternoon hit them as they left the bar, and they walked close together as Peter led them across town. Stefan told Peter about his worries. He confessed his old rate of pay on
The Green Brigade
, and divulged how much he had in the bank when he’d first come to the country. He knew Peter had never known that kind of money, and felt awkward about that disparity in their lives.

Peter didn’t make it easier for him. “And you spent that all on a play? Which is now over.”

“I think it’s still running somewhere in Spain. Or maybe they’ve moved on by now.” He sighed. “I know. It made sense at the time.”

“Here we are,” said Peter. He led them down a path lined with shrivelled trees and winterised flower-beds. He pointed at a series of huge glass buildings ahead. Their steamy windows held in a blaze of vibrant green. Peter paid their admission, and they walked into a room whose air was rich and clean, with the heavy, moist feel of breath. Ferns covered the ground and palms rose to the glass roof.

Peter took them over a walkway into another room that contained a pond. They sat on its edge and Stefan reached for one of the huge, leathery green lily-pads, pulling it close.

“I know how you can get rid of this rent problem,” said Peter.

“How? Sell my blood?” He raised an eyebrow. “My sperm?”

“No,” laughed Peter, “move in with me.”

Stefan stared at him. This thought had never occurred to him; he wouldn’t have dared entertain it. “Really?”

Peter put his hand around the back of Stefan’s neck. “Really.”

“What do I tell my landlord?”

“Well, there are good excuses and bad excuses.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A bad excuse is boring.”

~

The landlord watched quietly as they moved the last of Stefan’s things from the flat. When Stefan handed him his keys, the man shook his hand and said, “I’m so sorry, son. So young. But don’t you mind the statistics. Yeh’ll find a donor yet.”

Stefan nodded a solemn
thank you
, and headed down the stairs. Peter closed the back doors, and they got in. The landlord waved as they pulled away. Peter’s laugh spluttered out of his lips as they turned the corner.

“You’re a bad influence on me,” said Stefan.

“Hey, you were going to break your lease anyway. Nothing’s any different than it would have been, except now this guy thinks he did you a big favour.”

“You’re still a bastard.”

Peter smiled.

Fiona met them at the door of their flat and helped them carry Stefan’s bags and boxes upstairs. “Like I don’t see enough of my brother, now I’ve got to deal with you, too,” she said.